Cassie

by deMora, MariaLisa

  She studied the shoes. His and Daddy’s were nearly the same size, Sammy’s just a tiny bit longer, but not as wide. Mommy’s shoes were smaller, even wedged between the two worn pairs. Hers were the smallest of all, looking tiny in comparison. It made her sad to look at them, so she twisted and turned to the side, looking out over the grass. All those stones poking up from the earth, each one marking a family’s loss.

  “So, the story.” He paused and she heard him moving around, then he bumped her shoulder. “There you were, the loudest baby in the history of the world. Between crying, pooping, and burping, you pretty much had all the gross bodily functions mastered already.” She whirled and scowled up at him but couldn’t hold the expression. Sammy was smiling down at her and the look on his face was fond and sweet, and so full of love she gave up her anger right away, grinning back. “Nah, who am I trying to kid? You were cute and perfect, and I loved you as soon as Daddy carried you into the house. Always have, and always will, little sister. Uncle Deke and Aunt Mercy were staying with me, and we all made such a fuss over you. Pretty much everyone who saw you fell in love at first sight when Daddy brought you home.”

  Faith’s steps slowed and she paused just outside the door to the living room. “When Daddy brought you home.” The stories never varied. That was one of the truest things she knew…the stories were set in stone. They were what happened, and that was that. She could trust their words about the stories, which meant she could always believe other things they said like “your mother would have loved you in that dress,” or “Mom would be so proud.”

  The stories never varied, except that one had. When Daddy told it, he always said, “when we brought you home,” and she’d taken that to mean him and Mom. A small thing, a tiny thing, but since she had a sum total of eight pictures of her as a baby with her mother, it mattered. She’d built up an idea of Mom and her here, in the house, at home.

  “When Daddy brought you home,” did not say “when Dad and Mom brought you home.”

  “Samboni,” she called, and then went on without waiting for a response, “I forgot something. I’ll be right there.” She was already running for her room when he gave a muffled shout, and she slammed the door behind her and twisted the lock, shutting him out. Falling to her knees beside her bed, she reached underneath and drew out a box. Unlatching the lid, Faith quickly thumbed through the folders and envelopes inside. This was her box of important things, and it included things her father didn’t know she had. Like the cutout of the newspaper obituary for her mother that Aunt Mercy had given her years ago.

  Reading, she let the words flow past her without pause until she got to the part she needed. Hope Annabelle Collins Rogers passed away unexpectedly. She is survived by her husband Isaiah Rogers, son Samuel Isaiah Rogers, and infant daughter Faith Inez Rogers. The date listed was very familiar to Faith. It was her birthday. Not months after. Not weeks after. Not even one day.

  Papers fluttered from her fingers and back to the box, but Faith wasn’t watching them. She was staring straight ahead, seeing again those never-worn shoes that Sammy had to have bought just for that picture. “When Daddy brought you home.”

  “Mom never came home. I did, because Daddy brought me home.”

  She kept her eyes focused on the empty place on the wall, not wanting to look around and see images of the accusing eyes of her father or brother, or the fake smiles they had to plaster on every time they remembered what she’d done.

  “I killed my own mother.” The words sounded as evil on the air as they had in her head, and Faith struggled to quell the trembling inside her belly.

  “Faith Inez,” Sammy bellowed from the other room. “Popcorn is ready. Where the heck are you?”

  “Coming.” Her response came out as a tiny squeak and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Coming. Gimme a minute, jeez.”

  Sing-song, teasing, just like he’d been her whole life, Sammy called out, “I’m not waiting.”

  “I’ll be right there.” I took his mother away. An image of her father’s face rose in her mind, expression ravaged by grief. She choked off a sob, burying her face in her palms. I’ve gotta make this right somehow. She didn’t know what she could do with the knowledge, was surprised by how her heart ached. But Faith knew she had to find a way to help her dad and brother heal.

  ***

  Mason

  Mason startled up from sleep, head lurching off the pillow. Breathing heavily, he pushed up to one elbow and looked around the room, verifying he and his wife were alone. She rolled towards him, murmuring a questioning, “Chunk a hunk?” Her way of asking if everything was okay.

  He smiled and bent to her, nuzzling against her neck as he told her, “Sleep, babe.”

  “’Kay.” She sighed and settled against the pillow, her eyes never opening.

  Swinging his legs off the mattress, he stood and stretched, and then padded down the hallway. Pausing at the first door, he slowly opened it and looked inside to see his daughter sleeping. Hands folded under her pillow, Dolly’s breathing was slow and easy, her sleep deep and dreamless.

  The next door was already partially opened, and Mason used his palm to ease it wider. Garrett, just over a year older than Dolly, lay sprawled on his back, hands and feet anchoring the corners of the bed. His head angled backwards, prominent Adam’s apple showing proof of the boy’s advancing age.

  Mason pulled the door back to the original position, leaving it cracked to allow a stream of light into the boy’s room. He passed by the next door with just a tap of his finger, hearing the echo from inside marking the emptiness within. Chase had moved out on his own a while ago, and the change still bothered Mason.

  He made his way to the kitchen and stood, hips canted to the side. Moving slowly, methodically in a way that showed his mind was elsewhere engaged, he filled a small glass with water. Checking on his family had settled him somewhat, but the dream still followed him. In his head he still could hear Morgan talking and Shooter yelling, screaming at him about their mother. Shooter had ridden straight through from Little Rock to Adken, stopping only to call contacts who had backed up the story Mason had fed him.

  “What the fuck did you do to Mama?” Shooter’s shouts rang through the tiny coffeehouse. “Did you kill her?”

  “No, boy. You know what happened to Crystal.” Morgan’s voice held a tone of patient long-suffering, not something Mason was accustomed to hearing from the man. “You saw her.”

  “I saw what you wanted me to see.” There was a hard slam and Mason felt Bones jerk in response. He held out a hand in a signal to hold and from his peripheral vision saw Bones nod. “You brought your trick pony in and I rode that motherfucker. I rode the hell out of it, didn’t I?”

  “What do you want from me?” A clink of a coffee cup hitting the top of a table was almost swallowed by Morgan’s words. “What in the hell do you want from me this time?”

  “I want the truth. That’s all I ever wanted.” Boot leather scuffed the floor and Mason inched forwards, putting his eye to the crack between the doors. He caught a flash of Shooter stalking past, headed closer to where Morgan sat. The coffeehouse windows offered a reflected view, and he stared at the standoff. Shooter was arched over the older man, his posture striving for intimidating. Morgan, on the other hand, looked far from impressed, kicked back in the chair as if he were seated at his own kitchen table.

  “God, I fuckin’ regret this.” Morgan’s head swung back and forth slowly, as if he were exhausted. “Out of my whole life, there’s really only one thing I wish I could undo.”

  “What do you regret?” Shooter shuffled closer, his hands lifted, waving wildly, gun clutched in the fingers of one hand. “Huh? What?”

  “Should have taken Judge from you sooner. Kept him from your poison.” Morgan lifted his cup, quickly reaching out to grasp and hold Shooter’s arm when he would have slapped it from his grip. “Jesus, boy. Stop your shit already. You never were fast enough or tough enough to take me.”


  Enough. Mason gestured and knew without looking that Bones would have his back. He always did. He shoved the doors open and stepped inside, shifting to the side to make room for Bones, his true brother in the room. Didn’t matter if Shooter was blood, Bones was his brother. “Morgan,” he addressed the only man who’d ever come close to matching him in long game strategies. Shooter he ignored.

  “Mason, good to see you, son.” A slow and knowing smile slipped across his face. “Damn good to see you.”

  Mason had given up denying the parentage link, but this might have been the first time Shooter had put the puzzle together, because he turned from Mason, gave him his back, and faced their father with a horrified look on his face. “Is it true? All the shit I’ve been hearing? Is it all true?”

  Mason took a step towards the pair. “What are you doing here?”

  Morgan didn’t glance at Shooter, his gaze steady on Mason’s face. He hadn’t flinched at facing three weapons, hadn’t risen to his feet or raised his voice. Almost clinically Mason studied his posture and bearing, drawing correlations between this man and how he’d chosen to lead for so many years. Once he let doubt slip in about who his real blood father was, Mason had spent a lot of time staring up at his bedroom ceiling thinking. The man he’d been raised to believe had spawned him would have been on his feet, blustering, shouting in response, trying to control the situation. Is it because I wanted to be what the old man wasn’t, or because of who Morgan is?

  Gesturing at the coffee cup on the table, Morgan smiled and said, “Having a cup of java.”

  “Not what I’m asking, and you know it.” Mason shook his head, casting the twisting thoughts aside. Time enough for that later. Right now he needed to understand what had pushed Morgan to keep his mother from him, from Bethany, and especially why he had secreted her away from Shooter. “How often do you visit Ma?”

  Shooter spun and stared at him, mouth gaping wide. Morgan just grinned, this expression sly and proud. “I knew you’d find her. Once you caught wind of the girl, you’d have to put eyes on her. That’s just who you are. Did you talk to Crystal yet, Mason? Don’t be afraid if you did. She’s still your momma in there. She just gets confused easy like.”

  “What’s special about those five women? Why are you holding them prisoner like this? What did they do to deserve being taken away from family and home, from people they loved?” All the info Myron had found showed each of the five women housed in the facility south of town were either dead and buried, or had been missing so long they’d been declared dead. “Why? And why do you come back here to torture them? What kind of excuses do you make in your own mind to justify this?”

  “What in the hell are you talking about? Five women? What does that have to do with Daddy?” Shooter took a step sideways and placed himself between Mason and Morgan. “With Momma?”

  “You know why I had to do what I did.” Morgan shook his head. “Kept them safe. Learned my lesson with John, you know what I mean? Learned my fucking lesson. If a body chooses this life, that’s one thing. Forcing it on ’em? That’s a death sentence. Every time. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Mason. Keep your family well away from what you do, how you live. First John, then Luke. Proof is in the pudding, and that spoiled early, didn’t it?”

  “And Justine? What about her?” Mason’s mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the implications of what Morgan had revealed.

  “I know you get it, son. You did the same with sweet Bethany. She’s making her own choices now, and that’s on her, but at least you gave her the space to be her own person. John here, I didn’t know enough to know better. Thought if I pulled him in tight and early, lined him up to take the weight of the crown when it was time to pass it on, he’d be my legacy. Carry on in the family name, so to speak.” Morgan shook his head. “John,” he addressed Shooter for the first time. “I asked you once, if you could be anything in the world, what would you be. You were fifteen, sixteen, something right in there. Nearly a man grown. Do you remember what you answered me?” Shooter shook his head and Morgan smiled at him. “You told me ‘Anything but this.’ I didn’t listen. Arrogant to the point of damaging. I held you tight and watched as you lost your sense of right and wrong, never thinking it was me doing it to you. I’m sorry, son.” He shifted his gaze to Mason. “Did right by you, even if I didn’t know it. Crystal was smarter than me when she hid you away. It took me a bit, but I learned. I learned, and followed her example. Hell, even Kim was smarter than me, wasn’t she, John?”

  “What? Kim? What does she have to do with this?” Shooter looked confused. “She stole my girl from me, took years to find her.”

  “And look at Eddie now. Aren’t you proud of her, John? She had a choice and she’s exercised it, keeping her life free from ours for so long. Made something of herself. And now, she’s a good old lady, ain’t she?”

  Shooter nodded. “The best. Wish she’d hooked herself to someone other than a Rebel, but I’m proud of her.” He shook his head. “What did Mason mean about five women? What’s up with that?”

  “Might as well have been your hand that held the gun to Luke’s head, though.” Morgan sighed. “Or mine. We did that to him.” He stared down at the empty cup. “I regret that more than I can say.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Shooter waved his gun through the air. “I didn’t kill my boy.” Breathing heavily, he turned and pointed at Mason. “He did. Motherfucker killed my boy.”

  “Don’t make my mistakes, Mason. It’s hard to let go, but you gotta. For their sakes.” Morgan’s chin worked side to side for a moment, then he said, “You gotta ’ware the world we live in, Mason. Your children, breathin’ air and not yet born, they’ll always be a pawn for someone. Keep ’em safe.”

  “That a threat, old man?” Leather creaked beside him and he knew Bones’ stance had shifted too. Prepared and ready for whatever Morgan was willing to bring.

  “No threat, son. Not a thread of that left in me for you. Just—” Morgan hesitated and his gaze cut back to Shooter. “Keep ’em safe.”

  “And Ma? You said she gets confused. What does that mean? What did you do, Morgan?” Sirens sounded in the distance and Mason realized how long they’d stood here talking. Fuck, the barista. “How do I fix it?”

  “Time. Keep her safe, and she’ll come back to herself. She gets scared easy, though. I did that to her, and for that I’m sorry. But she’s safe, ain’t she? So there’s that at least.” He took a deep breath. “Be good to her, yeah?” Morgan gathered his feet under him and rested an elbow on the back of his chair. “I loved ’em all, in my way.”

  “Justine’s mom?”

  Morgan nodded.

  “What the fuck are you all talking about? None of that makes any fuckin’ sense.” Shooter’s gun wavered back and forth and he looked stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “I hid her away, boy.” He calls me son, Mason thought. “Saw what you were coming to, what you were half-assed planning, and I took care of my own. You’d have killed her.” Myron and Bones were right. They both had guessed Shooter had something to do with why Morgan had hidden the women away for so long. “Taken her light from the world, and I couldn’t let you.”

  “You showed me her body. Held my head and made me look at her. Burned. God, the stench. You didn’t care how I tried to get away from that scorched thing on the table. You told me to look, to see what happened when I didn’t take care of the people I loved. Made it my fault she was dead.” He pounded his chest with his free hand, the pistol steadying as his anger gained mass and speed. His chin dipped towards his neck and Mason watched as he struggled with the emotions. “Made it on me, told me if I’d taken better precautions, it wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t know she was going to be shopping that day, so how could I have assigned someone to her? But it wasn’t even her, was it? That body I watched over for two days wasn’t even my mother, was it? You,” Shooter’s head came up and he stared at Morgan, “took her from me.”

&
nbsp; Morgan stared at Mason unblinking as he told Shooter. “I did.”

  “You took her away. Made me think she was dead.” Morgan nodded. “I dug her grave and buried her. Pouring rain, I stood in a hole and shoveled mud. Buried her.” Morgan’s jaw ground back and forth, but he didn’t respond. “You lied to me.”

  “Jesus, boy. Stop jawin’ and do it already.” Morgan’s head swung to the side and he aimed a furious glare at Shooter. “If Crystal hadn’t been so fuckin’ loyal, I would have wondered if you were even fuckin’ mine. Grow a sack, John. Fuckin’ finally, grow some nads and do it. You’ve been angling at killin’ me for years. Fuckin’ do it.” He pushed to his feet, towering over Shooter. “Fuckin’ do it.”

  Sound roared in the coffee shop as John pulled the trigger. Red splotches appeared in Morgan’s shirt, the bullets’ exit wounds painting the window behind him red with blood and bits of flesh. He toppled backwards, thrown by the impact, his elbow striking the table and unending it.

  Mason was ready as Shooter started to spin. He pulled his trigger just before Shooter lined up his gun, inertia carrying the man through the motion, and his gun fired a final time. Mason heard Bones grunt and fall, his cursing cry telling Mason it wasn’t a fatal wound. He and Bones continued to fire as Shooter fell in slow motion, the impact of each bullet causing his body to jerk and shudder.